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A Short Story I'm Working On

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You don’t know me beyond my voice, and no one does, but I know you and I know what you’ve done.
Last year you graciously contributed $25.00 to the families of burn victims by means of the “Fire Fighter’s Charitable Foundation.”
When I mention how last year you also cheated on your wife with her best friend, I put you down for an additional $25.00 and you say nothing.

The children thank you.
Click.

You live at 37409 Palm Terrace Way. I tell my headset about how your husband Marty died of a stroke last year. I tell my headset about how you wish you could join him, but you fear the end because of that kid you ran over and killed three months ago, and how it means you’ll go to Hell and never see your sweet Marty again and burn for eternity if you go on letting others suffer. My headset says nothing back so I continue by explaining how the “Woman’s Breast Cancer Association” kindly thanks you for your $50.00 contribution this year and how we look forward to your continued support.

Forgiven.
Click.

I am the modern priest in his modern confessional. I’m listening, but not entirely anonymous. Offering a sliver of your soul back for a simple nominal fee. A small price, granted you’re willing to pay cash money.
If not… you may just find yourself losing more than just a few bucks, because I know where you live.

Glowing on my screen I see you all.
I know where you live, and I know what you’ve done.

At 2765 E. Ocean Ave. Javier Vasquez beats and bullies his elderly mother Maria out of her Social Security money each month and spends it on Speed and booze. My headset explains how it doesn’t have the extra $14.95 to spare on some fucking dying “Make-A-Wish” kid’s final smile, that and to stop calling and to fucking go to Hell.

Thank you for your time Mr. Vasquez, I tell my headset as I jot down the name and address on my screen.

The sound echoes throughout an empty, unfurnished third-floor apartment. It bounces off of the yellow smoke-stained walls with their spider-web cracks and various tie-dye Technicolor blotches of only God knows what. It reverberates between the splintered hardwood floor and only-half-there ceiling.

But nothing happens.

Ring-ring.

The sound is tossed down the long hall that leads to the only other door, which is slightly ajar. Beyond the door the sound, although still quite loud, goes unnoticed in the darkness. An enormous figure stands before the only window, aiming a telescope through a broken pine of glass.

Still, nothing happens.

Ring-ring.

The figure doesn’t move other than the slow heavy rise and fall of its shoulders and chest as it draws in oxygen, holds it, then releases in a low growl. The telescope is an extension of its silhouette, moving along with its sluggish owner, both seemingly inanimate yet disturbingly emotive in the dark room.

Ring - - Click.

The figure tenses for a moment, holding itself as still as the air. Listening, the figure leans in towards the window, grasping the scope even tighter and (somehow) even closer into its eye.

The answering machine’s voice off in the other room down the hall is that of a concerned young woman. When the figure hears it, it begins to quiver.

“Mars?” The speaker calls out. “You there?”

Nothing.

“It’s me… c’mon Marshall, I know damn well you’re home.” The voice sighs deeply then inhales loudly. “Fine. Anyway, I was just calling because I,” the voice stumbles for the right word. “Josh wanted to have a word with you so go ahead and just stop on by whenever you get this… were having spaghetti if you’d like to join us.” Another deep sigh breathes out of the speaker. “So yeah… see you then. Bye.”

The answering machine clicks off and stops recording. The figure stands frozen in place like just another shadow there in the dark cold room, blending in with all of that nothing. Without concern the telescope is peeled from the figure’s face and goes flying across the empty room, as if nothing in the world caused more pain than standing there holding it against ones skin. Before it hits the ground the figure is already halfway down the hall, each footstep stomping harder and faster than the last as it advances towards the exit. If the door had conscious thought and the ability to move itself, it would be stupid not to swing itself open at the sight of such a charge. Lucky for it the figure throws an arm forward taking hold of the knob, tearing it open and free from his path. The door slams shut and the stomp-stomp-stomp slowly distances itself until the dark apartment’s silence is restored.

Then, there is nothing once more.

Chapter Three

You know that feeling you get when you see a dog get hit by a car? The way your stomach wants to remind you of what you ate for breakfast and how, for just an instant, you wish it was the driver bleeding and broken, lying in the road panting and dying?

Silence.

Have you ever felt like that?
You know, like being helpless?

Have you ever wished you had the power to restore life to that innocent creature? The power to take away its pain, even if it meant that you had to bury the hurt deep inside yourself in exchange?
Have you ever wanted to take those damned selfish drivers, with their bitching and complaining and cursing about their damned dented bumpers and dump everything you took from all those dying animals on them… even if it meant that you might have to sacrifice everything you care about?

Only silence.

Have you ever felt like that?
Not many do.
But I do.

Everyday. That’s how I feel when I listen to you people tell me about all the petty issues that prevent you from helping someone in worse shape than yourselves.

Everyday. I want to cover my computer screen with what I had for breakfast when I hear what my headset is telling me.

As if confessing ones own sins and shortcomings in life could possibly excuse one from doing the right thing and helping, even if only a little. Just once.

Everyday. It grows as I shrink and blackmail only works for so long before the Robin Hood idealism of taking from the driver and giving to the dog fades, changing from petty extortion to something more permanent and destructive.

Do you understand?

Everyday. The list grows as my restraint shrinks and more and more I find myself ready to swallow down all the hurt this world has created… even if the price that power demands is everything I’ve ever loved.

It used to be enough, sitting here at my station, listening to my headset give its life story one phone call at a time… one sick sad confession at a time. Then selling salvation and forgiveness for next to nothing. Sitting here, playing the part of modern priest in his modern confessional, only instead of saying Hail Mary ten times before I hang up, you shell out some cash for someone who needs it.

That used to be enough.
That is until I realized that you aren’t really helping anyone by dumping a few bucks on them here and there. It only masks the problem while allowing the guilty to feel better about their crimes. You allow the disease to spread unless you completely sever it from the body. Cut it out like a tumor or it can only grow until it consumes and destroys everything vital.

Have you ever felt like that?

Silence is finally broken.
Click.
My headsets silence is replaced by a dial tone and my screen goes blank before I can finish copying Jerome Willis’ address. From across the room a voice shouts.
"Marshall! Get your ass in here now!" My boss screams as half of my co-workers jump in their seats, each one turning around just long enough to shoot me a nasty glance before returning to their headsets and monitors and potential percentages… granted they score a donation.
Have you ever forgotten that your boss occasionally listens in on random calls?
This time the vomit creeps up my throat for different reasons as I make my way towards the angry eyes of my employer. The way they beam at me as the space between us closes, I can't help but feel something like a dog about to be struck by a car.
Nobody seems to care.
Not many do.

Chapter Four
The figure bounds down the stairs. Quick but clumsy, in the darkness he slams into the grungy half-rotted walls as he rounds each corner. His heavy shoulders knocking holes into an already barely-there structure while his pounding feet threaten to push through every mangled step. With every flight the dark figure descends more and more of its features are revealed. Patches of light force their way in from the broken pines of glass all the neighborhood kids smashed out with rocks or whatever, only the light comes through nicotine yellow.
The figure is a young man; packed thick with muscle and long unkempt black hair. His blue eyes are nearly popping out of his head with wild excitement. His teeth clench tightly while his chapped lips pull apart wide, desperately trying to draw in oxygen without sucking down all the grime and dirt in the air. His long, lean arms shove outward hard as he nearly tears the doors on the bottom level off of their rusty hinges.
For a moment or two, the light burns and those blue eyes stop working and his enormous hands have to shield them and rub them and force them into focus. His legs wobble a bit as if the Sun was stripping him of all his strength, but only for a moment of two.
He looks up at the building across the street, and without looking left, then right, then left again, he resumes his mad dash towards the apartment he only moments ago was watching over in silence.

Chapter Five
Knock-knock…
Still breathing hard he wipes the sweat off his face with his sleeve, pacing in front of room 116. Impatient he makes a fist and announces his arrival.
Knock- -
“Jesus Mars, that was fast.” The door swings open and standing there is a woman no older than 23 with her big green eyes and short black hair, sporting curves fit for an hourglass. Curves that are just doing their best to prevent Mars from catching his breathe.
“What did you do… run over here?” She continues as her green eyes glance down from her wristwatch up and over the sweaty panting man standing in her doorway. He settles himself down and takes in a large gasp of air, while looking at his feet he nods. She smiles with big red lips and bright white teeth then turns toward the kitchen.
“Well, you comin’ or what?” She calls over her shoulder. “Josh needs help with his spaghetti and we need to have ourselves a little chat.”
His eyes glued to her as she saunters away. After the briefest of hesitations he follows, closing the door he asks, “Am I in trouble?”
“When are you not?”
Chapter Six
Seated around a small, circular glass table in a tiny cramped clutter-fuck of a kitchen, three people shovel mound after mound of steaming spaghetti into their mouths.
The boy across from Mars struggles to talk as he forks about a pound of third-degree burn into his face. If it wasn’t for his choice in attire, hit and miss haircut and sauce caked everything you really wouldn’t guess Josh for a retard.
Joanna’s foot taps on the sticky linoleum, fast. Her fork spins and grabs at food, but never journeys to her mouth. She, with her big green eyes, burns a couple of holes dead square into Mars’ head, who, as best he can, is pretending it doesn’t hurt like Hell. Hunched over his plate, his nose only inches from looking like Josh’s, he is pretending that he didn’t just get fired and there is nothing to talk about.
“So…?” Joanna clears her throat and sets her eye-phasers to kill. “You gonna tell me why you got fired this time or are you?”
Josh swallows half his plate without fully chewing and lets out a loud “oooohhh,” the way you would when a friends Mother or teacher busted them doing something wrong back when you were a kid. Sauce dripping from his chin as he sniggers to himself, pointing at a helpless, cowering Mars, Josh is given a healthy dose of the look from an increasingly irate Joanna.
Silence.
She gives a deep sigh and closes her eyes, letting her head slump into her fingers. “Look,” both she and Mars lift their heads and make eye contact for the first time since he arrived, “I’m only trying to help keep you on track because Lord knows sometimes you damn well need it.”
Silence, in all her golden rage.
Throughout the rest of dinner nothing is said. When Josh finishes licking his plate clean Joanna gets him ready for bed as Mars clears the table and begins filling the sink with hot water and soap. Steam billows from the tap into his face. Beads of sweat form across his brow and stream down his nose, boiling almost as hot as the dishwater. A much calmer Joanna enters and hops up on the counter next to Mars, her head back in her hands as she hunches over with a heavy sigh. From the corner of his eye Mars is given a clear shot down Joanna’s top, his heartbeat hastens and he begins scrubbing the burnt noodles on the bottom of the spaghetti pot faster.
“I’m sorry, Mars…” She confesses with a hushed voice. “I didn’t ask you over tonight just to play Mommy.” Her head turns to look in his eyes only to find them nuzzled all cozy down her cleavage. When he notices he quickly looks away, his wide eyes darting from the pot to out the window to the wall to his feet. She smiles and moves in closer, putting a hand on his shoulder causing them to seize round and ridged.
“You’ve always looked out for Josh and me, I don’t think I get the chance to thank you often enough.” Her hand moves to his neck, gently squeezes, then moves to his other shoulder as she moves in closer still.
In his ear, she whispers. “Since you’re not working at the moment, why don’t you do me a favor and spend a few days here with Josh… and me.”
By now, at this rate, the no-stick coating on the pot is history. His hands red and fingers rubbed raw, still he scrubs harder without looking at anything.
“I could really use an extra set of hands around here…” she says as her fingers comb through his thick matted black hair. His eyes close and he finally stops scrubbing.
Silence.
He only nods.

A lot of this is needless fluff, such as the first half of chapter three. Think of a short story as a tactical mission. Figure out what you're trying to say, say it, and get the hell out.

Also pay attention to your imagery and your setting. The setting is floating in a vacuum a lot of the time, and you don't use enough imagery to convey an atmosphere for the scenes that require them.

When you've already introduced characters, don't impersonalize them by referring to them as "people" or "figures." The most blatant and unecessary example is the entirety of chapter 4.

Speaking of "chapters," get rid of them. Two paragraphs might be a scene, but it's not a chapter, and it takes away from the story. Use some sort of dividing symbol in between scenes instead.

Speaking of Chapter 4, it's a perfect example of the first couple of points I mentioned. I should be getting a picture of the scene from the first sentence, instead I get "The figure bounds down the stairs." Then the figure isn't described until the next paragraph, and I still don't get any kind of clear picture of the stairs or where the hell they might be until the end. You should convey both action, setting and imagery with the first sentence, like so...

"Marshall bounded down the square stairwell, the thick cords of his muscular frame tensing excitedly with each step. Quick but clumsy, he slammed shoulder-first into the corner of each flight as he descended, his long, unkempt black hair slapping trails in the grime that covered the flimsy drywall."

That's just an example off the top of my head. You can do much better if you try. As it stands now though, that particular scene gives us a little bit of action, then pauses for several sentences while you give us a character description. This guy doesn't just stop running long enough for you to describe him, then go back to his frenetic little escapade. Aside from it completely interrupting the pacing, this is a short story, you don't have time to just halt the story to give us a character description.

Anyway, that's just some advice after a first read through. If you really want to make this story better, show me your revision and I'll spend a little more time on it. I'm not saying I'm going to devote any particularly large amount of time to it, since I have my own to worry about, and since the quality of mine determines whether I get published or not, I can't afford a huge amount of time.

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